


Garo Estel (Have Hope)

by luciferslegions



Series: Boromir/OC [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Feels, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Council of Elrond, Denethor's A+ Parenting, Developing Relationship, Drama, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Elvish, F/M, First Time, Gen, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Major Differences From Original, Movie Dialogue, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Boromir, Rating May Change, Rewrite, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, The Lord of the Rings References, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29871570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferslegions/pseuds/luciferslegions
Summary: REWRITE OF "HEBO ESTEL (HAVE HOPE)"Boromir is in Rivendell by order of his father, and he is not exactly thrilled to be there.  His first night in Rivendell, one of the Elves returns an important possession that he unknowingly lost.  Despite Elrond's warning to stay away from her, Boromir finds that he cannot abide by his host's wishes.  Instead, he endeavors to discover what makes her so threatening.  When he does learn the truth, will Boromir continue to spend time with her?  Or will he wish that he had heeded Elrond's advice?SLOW UPDATES
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Original Female Character(s), Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Bilbo Baggins & Original Female Character(s), Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s), Faramir (Son of Denethor II) & Original Female Character(s), Pippin Took & Original Female Character(s), Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: Boromir/OC [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187747
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took this long, but here it is! The first chapter of the rewrite! The new title should be correct. In Sindarin, "gar-" means "to have," whereas "heb-" actually means "to keep/retain." My bad, y'all.
> 
> This chapter and the next will have a lot of dialogue from the LOTR movies, but after that a vast majority will be made up. The beginning will be a combination of book and movie canon. 
> 
> Word of warning, this is not a direct rewrite with improved grammar and longer chapters. There are a lot of differences and changes. So... don't hate me.

Boromir had never been one to put very much thought, if any, into dreams. On the rare occasions that he did remember his dreams upon waking, they were soon forgotten in the following days, for there were no reasons to dwell on them any longer. But that all changed on the nineteenth of June, in the year 3018 of the Third Age. Never before had his dreams been so vivid, nor had they left him so shaken. In this dream, as he looked eastward, darkness filled the sky and seemed to consume everything in its path. Then, turning towards the West, a faint light pierced the shadows, filling him with a small glimmer of hope. The voice that he heard next, and the words that were spoken, would plague his every thought in the coming days.

_Seek for the Sword that was broken;_  
_In Imladris it dwells;_  
_There shall be counsels taken,_  
_Stronger than Morgul-spells._  
_There shall be shown a token_  
_That Doom is near at hand,_  
_For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,_  
_And the Halfling forth shall stand._

The first line of the riddle was easy to understand. Everyone in Gondor knew of Narsil, the sword that was broken by Sauron before Isildur used a part of it to cut the One Ring from the Dark Lord’s hand. Narsil was being kept in a place called Imladris, but that was a name that Boromir had never heard before.

The second part was what disturbed him the most. Doom is near at hand. Whose Doom? Gondor’s? The Doom of Men? All Middle-earth? And what was meant by Isildur’s Bane? Isildur, the last King of Gondor, was slain by the arrows of Orcs from Mordor. Perhaps his father would have some answers, for he was well-versed in the lore of Gondor.

Unable to fall asleep again after his strange and disturbing dream, Boromir awakened and got ready for the day. He had fully intended to tell his father about his dream, and to ask him if he had heard of a place called Imladris and what Isildur’s Bane could be. What Boromir did not expect, however, was for a large force from Mordor to attack the city of Osgiliath. 

Victory did not come easy for the Men of Minas Tirith, for the soldiers were weary and the Orcs were fresh and untested. But this did not mean the enemy was weak or ignorant in the matters of war. Orcs were bred by the thousands for war and destruction, and their purpose was to annihilate the Free Peoples of Middle-earth and conquer lands for their master, Sauron. 

At the cost of many lives, the sons of the Steward of Gondor led their men into battle, and they fought bravely and held the forces of Mordor at bay. Gondor was able to hold its control of the river, and Osgiliath did not fall into enemy hands. Once the city was secured, Boromir placed the banner of Gondor, bearing the White Tree of the Kings, and gave a speech to raise the morale of the survivors of the battle. He promised them that the enemy would never capture the city, and the men who were gathered cheered and shouted his name.

He then found his younger brother, Faramir, and they joyfully embraced before partaking in the celebrations with ale. Far too soon, however, their father, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, the Steward of Gondor, appeared and snuffed their brief moment of happiness out like the flame of a candle. While he loved his father, it pained Boromir to witness his unfair treatment of Faramir. This time, he could not bear to listen to his father’s insults, and he had to walk away. His father pursued him, and the subject of Faramir quickly turned to a matter of great importance.

“Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He will not say why, but I have guessed its purpose. It is rumored that the weapon of the enemy has been found.”

“The One Ring.” The riddle from his dream replayed in his mind. “Isildur’s Bane…”

“And it has fallen into the hands of the Elves,” his father whispered. “Everyone will try to claim it. Men, Dwarves, Wizards… we _cannot_ let that happen. This thing _must_ come to Gondor.”

“Gondor…” 

Boromir’s eyes shifted uncertainly. The One Ring was Isildur’s Bane, and it was possible that Imladris and Rivendell were one and the same. Surely, it was not mere coincidence that Boromir would have his dream on the eve of his father’s news. The one question that remained unanswered was the Doom that was mentioned. And yet, Boromir had doubts. Could the One Ring really aid them? Could it be used to destroy Sauron, its creator, and save his people? Would the One Ring obey anyone other than Sauron, or would it betray them in its desire to be reunited with its master? Just as it had betrayed Isildur so long ago. 

“It’s dangerous, I know. Ever the Ring will seek to corrupt the hearts of lesser men, but _you_ … you’re _strong,_ and our need is great,” his father said and grasped his arm. “It is _our_ blood which is being spilled. _Our_ people who are dying. Sauron is biding his time. He’s massing fresh armies. He will return, and when he does, we will be powerless to stop him. You _must_ go.”

Boromir took a step back. Denethor leaned in closer, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes that Boromir had never seen in them before.

“Bring me back this mighty gift.” 

Boromir knew and recognized the tone of a desperate man. Desperation was not what he heard in his father’s voice. It was something that made him uneasy, and it was the only thing that stopped him from obeying his father’s orders without question. Boromir shook his head and pulled out of his father’s grip before he turned and entered the courtyard.

“No. My place is here with my people. Not in Rivendell!” 

How could his father expect him to leave at a time like this? They may have been victorious today, but the battle was not easily won. The Orcs would attack them again, and soon. Gondor could not afford to lose him, now. And what business did he have in Rivendell, anyway? It was so far away from his home. He was needed _here,_ to lead his men and protect the city he loved.

“Would you deny your own father?” Denethor asked, close on his heels.

“If there is need to go to Rivendell, send me in his stead,” Faramir offered. Their father let out a bitter chuckle at the suggestion.

“ _You?_ Huh, oh I see.” His lips curled into a sneer. “A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality. I think not.” Boromir spared a glance at his brother, but he could not find it in himself to defend him. “I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will _not_ fail me.”

Even though he knew that doing so would seal his fate, and that he would have no choice but to go, Boromir told his father of his dream. His father confirmed that Imladris was the Elvish name for Rivendell. Then, he told Boromir that this dream, this riddle, was a sign that he was meant to go. This mission could not be given to anyone else, because Boromir was the one destined to bring the One Ring back to Gondor.

What Boromir was not aware of was that his brother had had the same dream as he. And Faramir would have the dream twice more, but he would not speak of it to anyone. If he had spoken up, Boromir would have begged his father to allow Faramir to go in his place. Faramir knew more about the Elves and their language than he did, and because he was so soft-spoken, Faramir would be better at negotiating with the Elves. Boromir spoke the language of the sword, not the language of diplomacy.

In the end, Boromir could not go against his father’s orders. Before he set out for Rivendell, Faramir saw him off. The sadness that filled his brother’s eyes almost made him change his mind. Boromir looked up once more at the banner he had placed two weeks before, committing the image and the sense of pride it elicited to memory. After he was certain he would not break down, he lowered his gaze to Faramir’s.

“Remember today, little brother.” 

He had uttered those same words after the enemy had been driven out of Osgiliath. The tone, then, was one of joy and celebration. This time, it felt like saying goodbye. Faramir did not speak, and his somber expression remained unchanged. Boromir forced a thin smile, and he snapped his horse’s reins before his emotions overwhelmed him.

As he rode through the front gates, Boromir held the Horn of Gondor to his lips. He blew a long, low tone. It had always been a tradition of his to blow the Horn before he started a new journey. The Horn, which had been crafted even before Isildur’s demise, was passed down to the eldest son of the Steward. It was said that the Horn could be heard from anywhere within Gondor, and that the carrier need only blow it in times of peril and its call would not go unheeded. Boromir saw it as a promise, every time he put it to his lips, that he would return to his homeland, triumphant in whatever quest he was about to undertake.

He wondered if the Horn would be heard when he departed from Rivendell. The Elven realm would be the farthest from home he had ever been. Boromir hoped that after traveling all that way, his efforts would not be wasted. He also hoped that he would be able to save his people.

~*~

Boromir’s journey to Rivendell turned out to be much longer and more challenging than he’d originally anticipated. After passing through the Gap of Rohan, he discovered that the North-South Road was nearly nonexistent, and the bridge at Tharbad was in ruins. Although the Greyflood had a slow and shallow current, the river was wide and perilous. It was there that Boromir lost his horse, and he had to travel the remainder of the way to Rivendell on foot. The journey took one hundred and ten days.

He arrived in Rivendell at night, on the twenty-fourth of October, several hours after the hobbit who carried the One Ring was brought to Lord Elrond for his skills in healing. But Boromir knew nothing of this. After being shown to a guest room, Boromir asked where he might find the shards of Narsil. He placed his belongings on the bed and left the room, bringing only the Horn of Gondor, which he wore across his chest.

His footsteps echoed as he entered the hall. It must have been fairly late at night, because Boromir had not come across anyone, Elf or otherwise, except for the attendant who led him to his room. Everything was so still and quiet. Boromir came to a stop as he neared the mural on the far wall. It depicted Isildur lying on the ground and raising the broken Narsil towards Sauron. Boromir’s eyes narrowed in on the sword clutched in Sauron’s hand, prepared to end Isildur’s life.

Someone was watching him.

Boromir shifted his gaze to the left before turning around. Seated on a bench, holding an open book, was a man with dark hair to his shoulders. He was dressed modestly, like one of the Northern Dúnedain Rangers, and wore a silver ring on his left index finger. The feature that roused Boromir’s curiosity was the thin layer of facial hair.

“You are no Elf.” He didn’t even need to see this person’s ears to know that he was not an Elf, since they did not have beards.

“The Men of the South are welcome here,” the stranger said as he gestured towards Boromir.

“Who are you?”

“I am a friend to Gandalf the Grey.”

Boromir knew of Gandalf. The Wizard was the one who taught his younger brother of the Elves and their language. Whenever Faramir spoke of him, he used his Elvish name, Mithrandir. He heard his father’s warning that Men and Wizards would come to Rivendell and try to claim the One Ring. This Man, whoever he was, must be one of them. The fact that he was a friend of the Grey Pilgrim only confirmed his suspicions. 

“Then we are here on common purpose… friend.” 

The other man continued to stare at Boromir, unmoving. It made him uneasy. Boromir tore his gaze away and he faltered for a moment. Opposite the mural was a statue that appeared to be holding something. He moved towards it, and as he ascended the small staircase, his eyes fell upon six pieces of a broken sword. He picked up the hilt and held it in a firm grip.

“The shards of Narsil. The blade that cut the Ring… from Sauron’s hand.” He touched his finger to the tip and hissed as it drew blood. “It’s still sharp.”

Boromir’s eyes shifted. How was it possible that the sword could maintain its sharpness after three thousand years? Was it due to some Elvish spell? Just as the line of Kings had been broken, so, too, had the King’s sword. And yet…

Boromir turned towards the other man again, and his mouth fell slightly open. He was still staring at him. But this time, when Boromir gazed upon his face, it was as if he was looking upon a ghost. Boromir swallowed thickly and drew a shuddering breath. He could not afford to show weakness. Not when he had come so far. Not when the people of Gondor were counting on him.

“But no more than a broken heirloom.”

Boromir laid the sword down without looking, and as he was walking away from the altar, it clattered loudly on the floor. The noise had probably woken up every Elf in Rivendell. He paused for a moment, pondering about whether or not to pick it up. He turned his head as if to look back at the altar, but he did not want to meet the Ranger’s gaze again. Another second passed and Boromir continued on his way. He brought a hand to his forehead, as if trying to will away the dark thoughts that were creeping into the forefront of his mind. 

Although Boromir had memorized which directions to turn in order to find his room, it was a miracle that he made it at all due to how clouded his mind was from anger. He should never have come here. Faramir should have been the one to carry out this important task, because he was better suited for it. There was nothing he could do about that, now. It was far too late to change anything. He could feel the blood boiling beneath the surface of his skin, and his ears were ringing so loudly that he gritted his teeth from the pain. Boromir didn’t even know why he was so angry. It was probably from several sources. 

He was furious about the presence of Mithrandir and that Northern Ranger. What business did they have here, anyway? The Wizard was powerful enough on his own, and the Ranger lived far from Sauron’s reach. Gondor needed—no, _deserved_ —to have the One Ring. The Men of Minas Tirith were the ones who were bleeding and dying. They were the ones giving their lives in order to keep the rest of Middle-earth safe.

And, of course, he was not overly fond of the Elves. He knew that they would refuse to give up the One Ring should he ask for it. The nearest Elven realm to Mordor was Lothlórien, but even they couldn’t see the armies of Orcs from their doorstep. The air of Lothlórien was not thick with the smoke and ash of Mordor. Who did the Elves think they were? Just because they had lived longer, that did not mean that they knew what was best. They had no right to tell him what should be done with the One Ring when they had magic while mortal Men only had their physical strength and swords to depend upon for survival.

As his guest chambers came into view, the fog in Boromir’s mind suddenly dispersed when he noticed something hanging on the doorknob. His chest seized upon recognizing the Horn of Gondor. He had still been wearing it when he was shown to the shards of Narsil, or so he thought. He picked up the Horn and examined it in the moonlight for any scratches or cracks. After finding no signs of damage, it was then that he noticed an unfamiliar chain of tiny gold rings attached to it. It seemed that the leather strap had finally broken, though that could have been due to the amount of time he’d spent wading through rivers after he’d lost his horse. That must have been how he lost it, and yet he never heard it fall to the ground. 

Boromir stroked his calloused fingers along the chain. It was still warm.

He stepped into the small courtyard and searched for signs of anyone out and about. The person who had picked up the Horn of Gondor, and the owner of this chain, was still nearby. But no one else was there. It was as if they had turned into smoke and vanished.

Boromir turned and entered the room, the weariness from his long journey finally catching up with him. As he got ready for bed, he wondered if he would ever learn the identity of this person. He hoped it wasn’t an Elf, since he had no desire to speak to them longer than necessary. Even if it turned out to be an Elf, he wanted to at least thank them for finding and returning such an important and beloved heirloom. One that did not have a shameful history. One that was not broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist: HE HAS NO IDEA WHO SHE IS! I just felt that Boromir and Anael ended up together way too quickly in the original and it was unrealistic.
> 
> Also, I made a meme because reasons.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A majority of this chapter is the Council of Elrond scene from FOTR. In an earlier draft, I tried to use the dialogue from the book, as well as the movie (because I had to include "One does not simply walk into Mordor"), but in the book Elrond talks about the One Ring all the way back from before it was made and that would have made the chapter super long. I did use a small bit from the book, but the rest is from the movie.

The next morning, as Boromir was getting dressed, he heard the loud clang of a bell. He wondered if it signaled the start of the Council meeting or if it was just a warning bell. He left his room and looked for the place where the Council of Elrond would be held. This turned out to be easier than anticipated, since the other guests were all staying near one another and he could follow them. He wore the Horn of Gondor, not because he expected to encounter any danger, but because he thought that someone might recognize the golden chain. It was cold when he touched it. 

After he was shown to a seat, he hung the Horn over the back of his chair. As more and more people began to arrive, he observed them all carefully and waited for one of them to approach him or speak up. However, by the time the Council meeting began, Boromir was no closer to learning the identity of the one who had found and returned the Horn. Perhaps it was not anyone among those who were gathered here. Once all had been seated, Elrond rose and gestured his arm towards someone who sat next to Gandalf. 

“Here, my friends, is the Hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errand more urgent.”

Boromir looked across the circular porch at Frodo. He had heard of their kind before, a long time ago. Kindly folk who were small of stature, even smaller than Dwarves, with pointed ears and large hairy feet. Their homes were built under grassy hills, and they isolated themselves from other races. Rumor had it that their appetite was unmatched. But he had heard them referred to by another name: Halfling. 

‘“And the Halfling forth shall stand.” That was what the riddle said. But what have they to do with the One Ring?’

Elrond introduced almost everyone gathered, omitting those whom Frodo already knew. He named the Dwarf Gimli, son of Glóin, Erestor and the other counselors of Elrond’s household, Galdor from the Grey Havens, and Legolas, son of King Thranduil. Boromir was the last.

“Here is Boromir, a man from the South,” Elrond said as he turned to Gandalf. “He arrived in the grey morning, and seeks for counsel. I have bidden him to be present, for here his questions will be answered.”

‘Hopefully, I will be leaving this place with more than just answers.’

“Strangers from distant lands, friends of old… you’ve been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite, or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom.” He turned to Frodo and gestured towards the stone pedestal before him. “Bring forth the Ring, Frodo.”

Frodo rose from his chair and slowly approached the pedestal. He held out his hand and placed the Ring in the center. There was the tiniest hesitation to let it go. That is, if one knew to look for it. 

“So, it is true,” Boromir whispered. 

Several others were murmuring to themselves. Frodo returned to his seat and heaved a sigh, as if a heavy weight had been lifted. Boromir gripped the armrests and pushed himself up from the chair.

“In a dream… I saw the eastern sky grow dark…” He lightly touched his brow and began moving towards the pedestal. “But in the West a pale light lingered. A voice was crying: ‘Your doom is near at hand. Isildur’s Bane is found.’” He started to reach for the Ring, as if in a trance. “Isildur’s Bane…”

“Boromir!” Elrond shouted and made to stand up, but Gandalf beat him to it. 

_”Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!”_

Boromir backed away and stumbled to his seat. The sky darkened and the earth began to shake. The Wizard’s voice rumbled through the valley like thunder. Elrond was gripping his head, and Legolas’s smooth face turned into a grimace. The other Elves of the Council seemed to be the ones who were affected the most. When Gandalf finished speaking, the Sun’s light crept back into the sky above them again.

“Never before has any voice uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris.”

“I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond… for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West.” Gandalf leveled a glare at Boromir. “The Ring is altogether evil.”

“No, it is a gift. A gift to the foes of Mordor.” Boromir rose to his feet again. “Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor… kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of _our people_ … are _your_ lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him.”

“You cannot wield it. None of us can.” Boromir turned to the speaker. It was the Northern Ranger he had met the night before. “The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master.”

“And what would a _Ranger_ know of this matter?” Legolas jumped to his feet.

“This is no mere Ranger.” Boromir glanced at him. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.”

“Aragorn.” Looking upon the Ranger again, Boromir suddenly realized why he had felt so strange last night. Why he had felt as if he had seen a ghost from the past. “ _This_ … is Isildur’s heir?”

“And heir to the throne of Gondor.”

_“Havo dad, Legolas,”_ Aragorn said and held up a hand.

“Gondor has no King. Gondor needs no king,” Boromir replied and his lip curled into a sneer. He returned to his seat and glared at Aragorn.

“Aragorn is right. We cannot use it,” Gandalf said, as if the tense moment had not occurred.

“You have only one choice. The Ring must be destroyed,” Elrond declared, his eyes scanning those gathered here. Boromir shook his head dejectedly.

“Then what are we waiting for?” 

Gimli, the Dwarf, stood and grabbed one of his axes. Elrond moved, as if to stop him, but he held back. Gimli raised the ax over his head and brought it down on the Ring. There was a bright flash before the blade shattered into several pieces and Gimli was thrown backwards. Gandalf looked at Frodo with concern when the Hobbit gripped his head.

“The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess,” Elrond spoke. “The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.” He paused for a moment. “One of you… must do this.”

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” Boromir said as he rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep. And the Great Eye… is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume.” He shook his head. “Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly.”

“Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond just said?” Legolas argued, leaping to his feet again. “The Ring must be destroyed!”

“And I suppose _you_ think you’re the one to do it!” Gimli shouted.

“And if we fail, what then?” Boromir asked as he stood up, once again. “What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?” Gimli then rose to his feet, challenging Legolas.

“I will be _dead_ before I see the Ring in the hands of an _Elf!_ ” Most of the other Council members stood and began arguing with each other. “Never trust an Elf!”

“Do you not understand? While you bicker amongst yourselves, Sauron’s power grows!” Gandalf shouted as he moved in Boromir’s direction. “None can escape it! You’ll all be destroyed!” Everyone was so preoccupied with arguing that no one paid any mind to the Hobbit.

“I will take it!” Frodo stood and yelled, but his voice was still too soft for anyone to hear. He tried again, a little louder. “I will take it!” The other voices began to fade and everyone slowly turned in the Hobbit’s direction. “I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though… I do not know the way.”

“I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins,” Gandalf said and patted him on the shoulder. “As long as it is yours to bear.” Aragorn stood. 

“If by my life or death I can protect you, I will.” He knelt before Frodo and clasped his hands. “You have my sword.” Elrond and Gandalf shared a glance, and the Wizard winked.

“And you have my bow,” Legolas said with a smile.

“And my ax.” 

Legolas’ smile faded and he pointedly ignored the Dwarf, who had chosen to stand beside him. Boromir slowly began to walk towards the group. 

“You carry the fates of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council… then Gondor will see it done.”

“Hah!” Another Hobbit dashed out from behind some nearby bushes and stood next to Frodo. He had his arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to appear more defiant, but his innocent face lessened the effect. “Mr. Frodo’s not goin’ anywhere without me.”

“No, indeed,” Elrond replied with an amused smile. “It is hardly possible to separate you two, even when he is summoned to a secret Council and you are not.”

At the entrance to the circular porch, two more Hobbits were standing on either side of the doorway, watching the scene unfold. Not wanting to be left out, they emerged from their hiding place.

“Oi! We’re coming, too!” Elrond’s head whipped around, and he frowned as the two new Hobbits ran over to join their comrades. “You’ll have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us.” The one who spoke also had his arms crossed defiantly, but he was more convincing.

“Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission… quest… thing,” the other said with a firm nod.

“Well, that rules _you_ out, Pip.”

“Nine companions…” Elrond mused, noting the number gathered here was equal to the Nazgûl who had hunted the Ring Bearer. This was a promising omen. “So be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.”

“Great,” Pippin said with a smile. “Where are we going?”

~*~

The noon bell rang soon after that, signaling that it was time for lunch. Everyone was shown to the dining area that had been prepared for them while the Council meeting was in progress. The other three Hobbits invited themselves, because “anywhere Frodo went, they went, too.” Additional places had been set for a few others, including Elrond’s daughter, Arwen, who sat between her father and Aragorn. There was also another Hobbit who was much older than the others. He was seated beside Frodo, and Boromir wondered if they were somehow related. The older Hobbit, Bilbo, was speaking with Gimli’s father, Glóin, for they appeared to have been acquainted with each other in the past. 

Boromir had put the Horn of Gondor on again when the meeting ended, and then he placed it on his chair at the luncheon. Still, no one had said anything about the chain to him. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever find out who this person was. His mind was so preoccupied with these thoughts that he barely even noticed the absence of meat in the meal the Elves provided. Boromir might have grumbled about it under normal circumstances, but after traveling for so long and relying on what he could find for sustenance, he found that he did not mind all that much. The Dwarves were a different matter. They complained the loudest, followed by the two Hobbits, Meriadoc and Peregrin, who ended up missing three of their seven meals while they observed the Council meeting. The other Hobbit, Samwise, had his own opinions of the food, including ways he would make it taste better, but he kept those comments mostly to himself.

“I noticed that you were wearing the Horn of Gondor, Boromir,” Elrond said, seemingly out of nowhere. Of course, Boromir had been tuning out much of the conversations around him. “I can assure you that Rivendell is quite safe.”

“I do not doubt it.” Boromir stared at his cup for a moment. “Actually, the reason I brought it with me to the meeting was because I am looking for the owner of the gold chain which now keeps the Horn in place. I was wearing the Horn when I arrived last night, and I seemed to have lost it when I was visiting the shards of Narsil. Upon returning to my room, the Horn was hanging from the door. The original leather strap, which must have finally broken from age, was gone. In its place was this chain. Whoever returned the Horn was also long gone. I thought that if I wore it to the Council meeting, someone might recognize it or admit to being the owner. So far, no one has spoken of it. Until now.”

“I can tell you now that I know the previous owner. Additionally, you will not have to worry about that chain breaking. Not even the sharpest sword could sever its rings.”

“I see.” Boromir had not expected that. To him, the chain appeared to be a simple accessory. It surprised him that a complete stranger would be willing to part with it. “To whom does it belong?” Elrond’s brow furrowed.

“Before I can answer your question, you must answer one of my own. For what reason do you seek this individual?”

“I only wish to thank them for returning the Horn of Gondor. And, because of them, it will never fall from my shoulder again. I did not want to appear ungrateful.”

What was so wrong with that? Boromir didn’t understand why Elrond was acting so suspicious of him. Unless, the chain actually belonged to his daughter. But he was not interested in her, or any of the other Elves. Boromir was here for one thing and one thing only: The One Ring. Not a romantic relationship, or any relationship, with an Elf. Elrond’s frown began to fade, and he nodded once.

“Very well. If that be the case, I shall tell you what you want to know. The name of the Elf who returned the Horn of Gondor is Anael. Should you find her, do not expect any response, for she does not speak.” No one seemed to pay any mind to the look of disapproval that Aragorn sent in Elrond’s direction.

“That matters little, just as long as she hears my words. What does she look like?” Elrond took a sip of his drink, but he kept the cup close to his lips.

“She is the only Elf in Rivendell who never wears shoes, no matter the season.” Boromir couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Alright, that takes care of her feet. What about the rest of her?”

“That is all I will tell you. In fact, I would advise you not to seek her out, at all.”

“Why not?”

“Because your coming all this way will have been in vain.”

~*~ 

As the luncheon began to die down and everyone had eaten their fill—even the Hobbits—Elrond announced that he was sending several riders out to survey the land. He hoped these scouts would return with news of the Nazgûl, but their other purpose for going was to find the least perilous route to Mordor. Aragorn and Arwen were the first to excuse themselves, because he was to leave with Elrond’s sons within the hour. 

Boromir asked if he should go with one of the other groups, but Elrond told him that he should remain in Rivendell and regain his strength for the journey South. Depending on what obstacles they encountered, the riders might return in a few days or a few weeks. The Elf lord also added that the scouts had much experience with surveying the land, and no further help was needed. That was the nice way of saying that Boromir would only slow them down because he was not from here. 

Since it appeared that he would be staying for a while, he ought to find things to do to occupy himself. One thing he liked to do when he was in a new place for longer than a day was explore. 

Boromir noticed several Elves who were also out for a stroll. None of the ones he saw were barefoot, however, and he was grateful for that. The way the Elves looked at him would have made anyone else feel self-conscious. But he was far too proud to care what they thought of him. 

As he continued to explore the Elven realm, Boromir found it surprising that so many of the trees were still lush and green, even the willows. It was the last week of October, so he assumed that he would see more evidence of the change of seasons. Perhaps it was the climate or some type of Elvish magic. 

Boromir eventually entered an apple orchard. Many of the trees were bare and losing their leaves, because their season was already over. But he did notice a few apple trees that were still bearing fruit. He approached one tree that had only a small handful of pale green apples remaining. He pulled one off the branch, and he tried to remember the last time he had eaten an apple fresh from the tree. Minas Tirith was built into the side of a mountain and constructed of white stone. The ground was dry for miles, so it was impossible to grow crops within the city. All of the fruits and vegetables had to be imported from nearby towns and villages. 

He heard a twig snap nearby. The sound was close… _very_ close. Boromir looked around and tried to quiet his breathing. There were no signs of movement, and he couldn’t hear any footsteps. He kept listening for the sound. When he did hear it again, he realized that it had come from above. But before he could even look up, something hard bounced off the top of his head.

Boromir let out a curse and rubbed at his head. His vision swirled for a moment, and he needed to blink a few times to clear it. And then his eyes fell upon the culprit as it rolled along the ground. He knelt down and picked up another apple. Boromir stood up again, but he suddenly froze. On the large branch that was near eye level, he saw a pair of bare feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boromir, my dude. It's called a sunset.
> 
> Boromir at the end be like 


End file.
